The Love of the Damned
by Scarlet Sapphire
Summary: Now that Draco's father is in Azkaban, he must withstand the family honour by himself. But what happens when a dreadful secret that has been locked up in the Malfoy Manor for sixteen years is exposed?
1. Default Chapter

- chapter one -  
  
Smacks and Bangs  
  
Trailing through the deafening, swarming corridors of Hogwarts was what Draco Malfoy did best with his spare time. Lurking past startled first years, glaring at anyone who dared to stare at him one moment too many, hexing anyone whenever he damned well pleased was a hobby of his he would never abandon.  
  
With the indispensable assistance of his two larger cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, he was unquestionably the one they feared – the one they hurried out of the way – and he, being the heir to Malfoy Manor, secured a respectable seat around the airs of Lord Voldemort and his fellow Death Eaters. His dark grey eyes remained vague, deluded in an air of arrogance, of conviction that he, Draco, was certainly more momentous than anyone else who dared cross his path.  
  
To some extent, he had Crabbe and Goyle to thank – for they served him hand and foot, listened to his every command, laughed at his cruel, sneering jokes, even if various jokes were ridiculously dreary, they would fill the air with their rudimentary, unpleasant laughter.  
  
Keeping his pointed chin high, and running a hand over his sleek, silvery blonde hair, Draco trotted towards the Slytherin dungeons. It wasn't a great distance away from the Great Hall, and the changing staircases were left empty of his presence – for the dungeons existed just a few steps below ground level.  
  
With Crabbe and Goyle as his shadows, he prowled past the Slytherin gargoyle, one of a dark, derisive snake hauled up against a gruesome looking barricade – its teeth drenched in colourless blood, and its eyes beady and horrid, with dangerous slits running down. Draco had always admired that statue. Its presence alone usually caused some passing students to wince at the sight.  
  
Smirking to himself, he mumbled the password of the Slytherin common room to the gargoyle, and obediently, the hefty, prickle-framed doors behind swung open, revealing the green and silver linings of the area.  
  
The common room, unlike what most though, wasn't at all dark and monotonous. The narrow, yet elongated windows surrounding the room were unreachably high off the ground – and they were positioned in such a way that during the day, there was always light radiating in. The Persian carpets aligning the floors held great implication – as they brought in a sense of much beauty and elegance. During the darker hours, there would be enchanted candled heaving off every corner of the room – each glistening with either brilliant green flames or magnificent silvery white. The walls of the common room were etched with symbols of snakes and other such perilous visions, and many portraits of past Slytherin Heads of Houses hung around, usually muttering hexes to the students within hearing distance.  
  
It was rather a cold November afternoon, and they had just returned from lunch in the Great Hall – leaving their stomachs full and their minds buffed with energy.  
  
Draco needed someone to release that storm of energy on before his next class. He spotted a small second year hunched down by the corner beside the stairs that led to the boys' dormitories. With a distinct sense of satisfaction piercing through him, Draco stomped towards the boy – scorning at the way the boy was so transfixed on whatever book his nose was buried in.  
  
The boy had reddish hair, and he was noticeable lanky. This reminded Draco of those perfidious blood traitors, the Weasley family. Hovering closer, Draco noticed the book in the boy's hand was Hogwarts: A History, and this filled Draco's stomach with another pleasurable little squirm – as during his previous years, he would find the mudblood, Hermione Granger, perched by a table in the library, draining herself with that same book. This unfortunate second year had the manner of all the people he loathed the most circling him.  
  
Draco's hand grasped the end of his wand in the pocket of his robes – and when he spoke, he attempted to sound as saccharine as possible, 'Hello.'  
  
The second year jerked up his head, nearly terrified, and gave Draco what appeared to be a pleading look. He didn't speak.  
  
'Manners, boy. When someone says hello, it is proper to greet them in return,' said Draco abruptly.  
  
The boy hesitated for a moment, probably contemplation whether or not this was some sort of trick or dare – when finally he stared at Draco determinedly and spoke, revealing crooked, unsightly yellow teeth, 'Hello.'  
  
'Speak up, boy. Don't whisper. It makes you appear like a weak little prat,' said Draco shrewdly.  
  
Draco knew the boy's patience was wearing thin, and much to his pleasure, he caught the boy rolling his hideous green eyes. The boy sighed, and when he spoke this time, his voice was carried – as if he were attempting to stress each syllable - and much louder than before, 'I said hello.'  
  
Pulling out his wand at last, Draco pointed it at the boy, causing the boy to cringe and drop the book, 'How about you try that again, only without the eye rolling and the unnecessary sighing.'  
  
Crabbe and Goyle remained in the background, each chuckling up a stream of crudity. Pansy Parkinson, another Slytherin, had noticed the scene and was now joining in with their amused frolics. Draco took one glance at her, noticed her over enthusiastic beam, and faced the second year with much less eagerness.  
  
He had loathed Parkinson since the first day of school, when she had vowed desperately for his utmost attention. She was a very infuriating girl, with a face that very much resembled that of a repulsive pug's. She was, in a sense, an annoyance he couldn't turn off – for she was in his house, purposely took all the same classes, and made it a convention of always sitting beside or near him in the classrooms as well as in the Great Hall.  
  
He had once made the mistake of agreeing to accompany her to the Yule Ball that was held in their fourth year, and ever since then, he had to endure torment from several Slytherins who insisted that two were a couple. Her looks alone made him grimace, and her nagging personality didn't do much to cease that feeling of dire hatred he felt for her.  
  
Tediously stuffing his wand back into the pockets of his robes, he hastily headed for the boys' dormitories, gathered up the books necessary for the following two classes, and marched out of the common room with Crabbe and Goyle at his heal, leaving Pansy Parkinson drowning in her effort to capture his concentration again. That second year student had been very lucky, for if that cow hadn't shown up, he would be spitting out spiders for Draco's enjoyment.  
  
Draco's two allies parted ways as they shuffled closer to Snape's classroom. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle had managed to scuff up enough grades on their Potions OWLs the previous year, and so neither was accepted further on. That left Draco alone for two consecutive lengths of one hour, and even though both Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had managed to achieve an "O" for their OWLs, therefore allowing them to continue the course and be in his class, he didn't mind it so much. Snape was the only professor he held any sort of respect for.  
  
He entered the dark-lit room, attempting to make as much noise as possible, which providentially caused those who had already entered the class to notice him. His mind writhed with satisfaction as he quickly took a seat between Angel Clearwater, a quiet Ravenclaw, and Matthew McIvory, a sulking Slytherin. Settling his books and such before him – he laboriously awaited the lesson. He saw Pansy Parkinson enter the classroom with two other Slytherin girls, and when she perceived that there were not empty seats near him, she brooded in desolation and was forced to settle herself far away. Smirking, Draco focused his attention on other things.  
  
Granger and Potter, as usual, were seated two rows ahead of Draco, and neither one of them, he recalled, had bothered to acknowledge his presence. Frowning greatly, Draco felt a sudden urge to hex both of them – make them grow feathers upon their faces, cause them to itch like mad... Even with their backs turned to him as they chatted together animatedly, they provoked such significant resentment within him.  
  
'There will be no need for unnecessary talking,' came Snape's snarling voice. The professor had just entered the class, looking as sullen and shadowy as ever. He heaved to the head of the classroom, glaring at everything through sickeningly unwelcoming dark eyes. Draco's lips curled at the sight of this. The air Snape always held was truly astonishing. 'The potion you will be working on today is called Spear of Time. If brewed correctly, the consumer of the potion will be allowed to travel back in time as a spirit, from between five minutes to a full hour, depending on the consistency of the final produce,' explained Snape. He waved his wand, and the ingredients and instructions of how to create the potion appeared on the blackboard behind him, 'If you follow the directions as explained on the board, you should come across no struggles of any sort. I expect fairly decent results, as most of you managed to scrape an 'E' for the previous assignment.'  
  
With that, the class got to filing along the cabinet of the ingredients. Draco, wasting no time, scurried to his feet and traced over to the cupboard, pushing several other students out of the way. He was so persistent on being the first to hurry back with the ingredients that he unexpectedly smacked into Hermione Granger; causing the constituents they were both carrying to splatter on the grounds. He narrowed his eyes at Granger, attempting to shoot her with the nastiest of all glares.  
  
Granger looked perplexed.  
  
'And what happened here?' came Snape's precariously soft voice.  
  
Draco continued to glower at the mudblood. 'She smacked into me.'  
  
'We smacked into each other. It was both our faults,' said Granger pleadingly.  
  
Although from the look on Snape's face, it was already clear whom he would stand behind. 'Ten points from Gryffindor. You will clean this up before anymore accidents occur Granger, or you will receive no marks for your potion,' he hissed enjoyably before turning to Draco, 'Hurry along and collect another set of ingredients Draco, and watch your path next time.'  
  
To Draco's greatest delight, Granger was looking very irritated indeed – as she had no choice but to follow Snape's orders. Her bushy hair seemed to electrify as she gave Draco one last, perilous frown before kneeling down and beginning to clean up the mess. Harry Potter knelt down beside her and helped. Draco stood there, witnessing their struggle to gather up all the grains of the reddish powder called Hell's Dust. It was utter joy, watching two people whom he truly hated appearing like slaves, sweating with aggravation to clean up what their master would tell them to. He sneered at them, making sure they caught his contented smirk as he finally strode away.  
  
'That evil, conniving, manipulative little twit,' hissed Hermione Granger as she and Harry Potter approached the portrait of the Fat Lady. She had been muttering insults at the mere thought of him the whole way back from Potions – but she knew Harry, who had remained utterly quiet, was growing quite annoyed with her heckling. She did not care. She simply shrugged off all the irritated glances he would throw at her and persisted with ridiculing Draco Malfoy, the pure quintessence of hatred that existed in Hogwarts. 'If he so much as touches me one more time, I will curse him into obliteration.'  
  
Harry rolled his vivid green eyes one last time before speaking the password, 'Black Pepper.'  
  
'Of course,' said the Fat Lady as she submissively swung open the portrait door, letting them into the Gryffindor common room - a cozy, cylindrical room that held exquisite tapestries equipped with warm reddish carpeting and soft, red and gold furniture.  
  
Hermione trotted over to her favourite spot in the whole of the room, a restful armchair placed to the right of the large, welcoming fireplace. She literally threw her books upon the wooden table to her right and furrowed her eyebrows together; contemplating which homework piece she should tackle first. Her mind was still lost in that dreadful encounter with Malfoy during their Potions class. She had the distinct feeling that he had deliberately bashed into her, just so Snape would seize points from the Gryffindor house.  
  
She did not understand why Malfoy had to prolong such a disgusting display of disrespect for everyone. He was a Slytherin – he was a Malfoy – his father was in Azkaban Prison for providing assistance to Lord Voldemort – but did that involuntarily drench Malfoy's mind with constant hate for anyone who wasn't in his circle of heirs to Death Eaters? Hermione shook her head, causing her excessively curly brown hair to graze against her face. She realized it was quite ridiculous to expect anything decent from someone like Malfoy. He was simply a worthless, inconsequential little tyrant whom she didn't want to spend another moment thinking about.  
  
But twenty minutes passed, and her thoughts were still clouded.  
  
'Hermione, are you all right?' said Ron, who had taken a seat across from her. He had just returned from the Quidditch fields, and his face was soiled with mud. It had been raining, and so his vivid red hair was still damp from the splattering raindrops.  
  
'I'm perfectly fine,' said Hermione absentmindedly, without facing him. She opened her books and began putting finishing touches on the latest Transfiguration essay that was due the following week.  
  
'Malfoy got to her,' explained Harry, much to Hermione's disapproval. 'He banged right into her during Potions-'  
  
'And Snape ducked points from Gryffindor instead,' Ron finished. This scenario was rather common, only it usually occurred with Ron and Harry rather with Hermione. 'Want me to strangle him for you?'  
  
The corners of Hermione's lips tugged into a smile. Her eyes met Ron's, 'That sounds lovely. Just keep it clean and simple. I don't want to clean up anything else after that sordid rat.' They all gave in to small fits of laughter, and this placed some much-needed ease onto Hermione's heart.  
  
'Fred and George sent me a package of their latest inventions for Weasley's Wizarding Weezies,' Ron was now saying eagerly, 'They've got some great stuff. Maybe we should test one of them on Malfoy – you know, accidentally spill it in his drink.'  
  
'You have anything that would swell up his lips and make him incapable of filling the air with his crude voice?' asked Hermione.  
  
Ron smirked, 'I don't think so, but I could suggest the idea to Fred and George.'  
  
'Please do so. I don't know how much more of him I can take,' said Hermione, sounding serious, before staring down at her own neat writing. She was about to re-write a sentence in her closing paragraph when she felt Ron's eyes still on her.  
  
He was nearly gapping at her, 'Hermione, what's gotten into you? You've never agreed to torturing someone, even if it had been Malfoy in the past,' he said, although he sounded very delighted indeed.  
  
'Yes well, I'm simply human, aren't I? I can only take so much.' 


	2. Something More

- chapter two -  
Something More  
  
The following week was an exception to a very lulled first couple of months in school. With the recollection of Malfoy nearly dispersed, Hermione was able to fully enjoy the following week. The air surrounding Hogwarts was saturated with a calming November, and even though the air seemed to bite at her skin whenever she went outside, she was left with an almost soothing sensation – that of a fresh, imminent winter.  
  
Both Ron and Harry were exceedingly excited about the approaching Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Now that Ron had been made Quidditch Captain, the anticipation brought on energized chatter from the both of them. Hermione noticed that Harry was even more eager than usual for the first Quidditch match of the season, and this was probably because he had been wrongfully banned the previous year. This left Hermione out of many conversations. She had never quite grasped the reasoning behind all the Quidditch enthusiasm. It was only a mere sport for her, but she did support her friends whenever she could.  
  
'-so I don't think she'll be able to do the Hawkshed Attacking Formation,' Ron was telling Harry.  
  
Hermione had only caught about half of what he said, but apparently Ginny had hurt herself during the first practise of the season and was now unable to do a specific move.  
  
They were seated in the Great Hall, and it was sometime after dinner. Ron and Harry, besides discussing Quidditch antics, were fastened to a game of wizard chess. Hermione had her nose in the latest edition of The Daily Prophet, and after ruffling through it a few times, she sighed laboriously and closed the paper. For once, however, the Ministry wasn't dispensing itself with supposed realities, but rather focusing on what was actually occurring. All the Death Eaters Harry had named in their previous year were now securely locked away in Azkaban prison. This, to Hermione's great contentment, included Lucius Malfoy, as well as Crabbe and Goyle's fathers. Now... now they were all caged in a place far away from Hogwarts, from the Ministry of Magic. It was very hard to believe that just a few months ago they had lost Sirius, the closest person to a family Harry had left. All the horrendous madness that had occurred at the end of last year's term... it was only a memory now.  
  
Harry was looking livelier then he had a few months ago. He seemed to be drenched in the positive atmosphere of the school – and for the last few weeks, not once had his scar prickled with Voldemort's emotion. In truth, Voldemort had vanished right under Dumbledore's nose and most of the Ministry – but wherever he was now, he was keeping his distance. Even though this meant he was vying his time, undoubtedly scheming a plan, it still welcomed a great, long break for everyone.  
  
Ron's fingers had just pinched Hermione's arm, and she faced him, baffled. 'What on earth was that for?'  
  
'Oh good, you're still alive,' said Ron. 'You were looking oddly still for a moment there.'  
  
Apparently she had been too lost in thought. She placed a hand where Ron had pinched her. It prickled a bit. 'I was just thinking.'  
  
She watched one of Harry's knights kick the shins out of one of Ron's small, helpless pawns. 'Oh yeah? What about?' asked Ron, but his eyes were transfixed on the game.  
  
'Nothing important,' answered Hermione.  
  
Ron ordered his Queen to where Harry's Knight now rested, causing another smashing of pieces. 'Speaking of nothing important, look who just trotted in,' said Harry.  
  
Hermione's head automatically faced the entrance of the Great Hall. Her heart gave a violent wriggle of dislike as Draco Malfoy, accompanied by his usual Slytherin posse, walked over to the Slytherin table. Why did he have to return to the hall and ruin her perfectly good mood?  
  
Malfoy made a note of throwing her a nasty smile before taking a seat. She frowned and glanced back at the chessboard before standing erect, 'I just remembered I haven't finished Professor Binn's essay. I'll see you two in the common room.'  
  
'We've got a whole week left for that,' said Harry, puckering his eyebrows.  
  
'Yes, but I can't afford to lose track of the schedule I set up for myself.'  
  
Ron didn't look up at her, 'Don't try talking her out of it, mate. You know she won't listen to you.'  
  
Feeling somewhat grateful yet also annoyed with Ron's words, she turned her heal and walked out of the Great Hall and into the first floor corridors of Hogwarts. She felt somewhat puzzled that the mere appearance of Malfoy had caused so much hatred and irritation to rise within her. Usually she was able to ignore him, but today something more had lurked in her heart.  
  
He wore a long, dark, sinister cloak, and the atmosphere of the dungeon was reflecting his shadowy appearance. On his right rested grimy shelves – evident that no one had tended to their purity for years upon years. Piled on those shelves existed bottles and boxes of the most mysterious, most ominous of all potions in the world of magic. Directly in front of him lay a table, just as unkempt and bedraggled as the shelves – but there was one entity that varied greatly with the rest of the gloomy cell. The arms and legs of that entity kicked freely in the air, and sounds of obliviousness, of complete innocence came from it – filling the man's mind with a dreary, unwelcoming sensation.  
  
He inched closer to the being, to the small baby. He sneered at the look of unmindful joy on the baby's face, and couldn't help but grow disgusted and dismayed. He hated babies. He hated anything that smiled so carelessly to its surroundings. To make it worse, this baby was his child, carrying his blood, staring with the same brilliant grey eyes – and even though it wasn't over a month old, it was evident that its looks would undoubtedly mirror his father's.  
  
The man drew his eyes away from the baby and gazed deviously at the bottle in his gloved hand. It seemed to burn his fingers, desperate to break free – frantic to seep through the neck of the bottle and flow into the arrogance of humanity. In the man's other hand rested his wand, the tip pointing at the baby's forehead, waiting to release a spell of significance.  
  
'Be on with it,' came a cold, shrill voice from behind the man.  
  
Wincing with a touch of fright, the man held the bottle over the baby, gave one last apprehensive sigh, and poured its contents over the baby's forehead. The soft green liquid dissolved through the baby's skin, leaving behind an oily, colourless essence. Not bothering to keep the silence, the man threw the now empty bottle over his shoulder, causing it to shatter against the corners of the menacing dungeon.  
  
The creature, who was the owner of the cold, shrill voice, strode beside the shaking man.  
  
The man caught a glimpse of the creature before quickly facing the baby once more. The being was immensely drenched in utter wickedness. Just like the man, the creature was covered with a black cloak, its head hooded heavily. Its murky, yellow eyes had red slits, making its face look like that of a famished snake's. Its skeleton-like hands reached out from under the cloak. In one hand it held a blade – the sharp edge catching the only light that came through from under the massive doors of the dungeon.  
  
The man watched as the creature placed the blade on its opposite wrist, pressing the edge into its skin, causing nearly black blood to seep out. Holding its wrist over the baby's forehead, the creature shook its arm indistinctly, causing the blood to drape onto the baby's skin and dissolve just like the potion had.  
  
The point of the wand in the man's hand was shaking more than ever. The final step of the spell had finally approached, and the man knew what he had to do. He opened his mouth, and as firmly as he could, spoke, 'Orior Pessimus.' A crimson light emerged from the tip of the wand and washed over the baby's entire body – enclosing it before evaporating into nothingness.  
  
'So it is set,' the creature spoke, piercing through the mind of the man.  
  
'Yes my Lord,' said the man, his voice unstable – his mind still unaware of the horror he had just done.  
  
The creature's lips curled into a disturbing, baleful smile, 'You have done well Lucius, but I sense uncertainty in your mind.'  
  
'N-no my Lord.'  
  
'Do not lie to me Lucius,' Lord Voldemort hissed inaudibly, 'I realize it may seem obscure now, but my future, our future, will indubitably flourish – and such, you shall be rewarded beyond your dreams. Give it time, Lucius. When the days of his sixteenth year unfold, the spell will be whole, and we will endure the dawning of a new age of Dark Magic.'  
  
'Yes, my Lord. Thank you...'  
  
Sixteen years later, on a silvery green lined bed in the Slytherin dungeons, awoke a boy with a pointed chin and white blond hair. He thrust off his blanket and sat up, staring confusingly at his surroundings – unaware of why he had felt so drowned in a sweat of nothing but unexplained evil. It was as if something new had risen within him – something that wasn't there before - an essence that yearned to haze the world with wickedness. 


End file.
